


orange juice

by youaremarvelous



Series: Yuri!!! on Ice Tumblr Drabbles [7]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Post-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 06:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13607634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremarvelous/pseuds/youaremarvelous
Summary: Yuuri insists on picking Viktor up the train station. Unfortunately, he's contracted a flu bug as stubborn as he is.“There’s no reason,” Viktor continues, “for you to go out in the cold and expose yourself to more germs.”Yuuri leans down for a pair of jeans crumpled on the floor near the foot of the bed. His fingers barely graze the denim before his vision begins to black out around the edges and he’s forced to sit up again, his brain knocking against his temples in time with his pulse.“There’ll be plenty of time to overexert yourself when you’re well.” Viktor’s voice floats back through Yuuri’s consciousness—volume pitching—worsening his dizziness. Yuuri licks his dry lips, pats around blindly for his glasses. He doesn’t possess near the wherewithal to determine whether or not Viktor means it as a euphemism.





	orange juice

**Author's Note:**

> for the [five word prompts](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/post/170585148223/five-word-prompts), "just make sure you've eaten"

Yuuri’s still in bed when his phone rings at eleven. He reaches a hand out of his blanket cocoon, blinks his eyes hard to clear them. “Viktor?” He answers. The syllables grate against his shredded throat, and he winces against the pain, tucks his mouth into his elbow to muffle the crackling sound of him clearing it.

 

“It’s me,” Viktor’s exhales. Relief coats his voice—cool and breezy—like he’s been holding his breath, waiting for Yuuri to answer his call. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Fine, I’m—” Yuuri pushes himself up against the headboard, ignoring the protesting ache in his head. “How was your flight?”

 

“You don’t sound fine,” Yuuri sees the Viktor in his mind shake his head, eyes creased with concern. “Have you been resting like I said?”

 

“Mari threatened to handcuff me to the bed—” Yuuri runs a hand through his bed-tousled hair, smiles a little when he hears Viktor laughing—“ so yes. Something tells me she wasn’t acting alone.”

 

“You’re paranoid. Mari and I can barely communicate.”

 

“Mmhmm,” Yuuri hums. He doesn’t mention the English language courses she’s started taking twice a week. When asked, she claimed it was to help boost foreign tourism at the inn, and Yuuri imagines that’s the truth. Most of it, anyway. “Are you headed to the train?”

 

“As soon as I pick up my luggage.”

 

Yuuri reaches out a hand to his bedside table, uses it as leverage to unearth his legs from beneath him. “Great,” he says, shuddering a little when his toes meet the cold hardwood, “I’ll meet you.”

 

Viktor is silent for a half beat. Yuuri can just make out the quiet rush of air into his open mouth through the chatter of the baggage claim. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

 

“Viktor,” Yuuri’s tone teeters on the edge of an admonishment.

 

“Yuuri,” Viktor mimics him. “You’ve been sick. There’s no reason for you—”

 

“‘ _Been_ ’ being the operative,” Yuuri interrupts.

 

“There’s no  _reason_ ,” Viktor continues, “for you to go out in the cold and expose yourself to more germs.”

 

Yuuri leans down for a pair of jeans crumpled on the floor near the foot of the bed. His fingers barely graze the denim before his vision begins to black out around the edges and he’s forced to sit up again, his brain knocking against his temples in time with his pulse.

 

“There’ll be plenty of time to overexert yourself when you’re well.” Viktor’s voice floats back through Yuuri’s consciousness—volume pitching—worsening his dizziness. Yuuri licks his dry lips, pats around blindly for his glasses. He doesn’t possess near the wherewithal to determine whether or not Viktor means it as a euphemism.

 

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks. “Are you there?”

 

Yuuri tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder, starts wiggling out of his sweatpants. “Mm. Sorry, I was getting changed.”

 

“It’s eleven,” Viktor huffs. Then, softer, apologetic, “did I wake you?”

 

Yuuri doesn’t answer immediately. He puts his phone on speaker and sets it on the bedside table, pulls his shirt up over his head. “I needed to get up, anyway.”

 

“There’s no arguing with you, is there?”

 

Yuuri shrugs, knowing Viktor can’t see him do it. “I’ll be there in twenty, okay?”

 

Viktor sighs. “Okay,” he says, “but we’re going straight home after.”

 

“Okay,” Yuuri agrees. He can feel a fever flaring behind his temples—coursing down his neck and trembling in his fingers—and it makes the task of buttoning up his shirt unreasonably difficult. It’s especially annoying because he’d hoped to be well on his way to being non-contagious by now. It seems a cruel trick of the universe that he’s managed to catch a flu bug as stubborn as he is.

 

“Can I just say it worries me how easily you agreed.”

 

Yuuri kneads his knuckles into his sinuses, gears up to defend himself, but Viktor cuts him off. “Kidding, sorry. Just…drink a glass of water, okay? Oh! No! Orange juice! For the vitamin c! And make sure you’ve eaten.”

 

Yuuri picks up his phone and holds it between his knees, stares at the framed photo on the desk across from him— a selfie of Yuuri and Viktor, arms linked in the Plaça de Cataluny, Viktor’s chin resting on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Sure,” the word comes out throatier than he intends. He swallows against the burn in his tonsils, the tangle of thoughts on his tongue. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

Yuuri doesn’t eat anything before leaving, despite his Mom pushing an already peeled mandarin into his hand and Mari shooting him a disapproving look when he sets it back down on the kitchen counter. His stomach is turning with something more than illness and he doubts his ability to force anything past the knot in his throat.

 

It’s a decision he regrets when he arrives at the train station, lightheaded and nauseated, sweat matting his shirt to his back. He props himself against a wall and bends his knees, tries to get some blood to his head without doing something mortifying and attention-catching like sitting on the floor. It doesn’t really work. Mostly, he thinks, because the potential of passing out has kickstarted his anxiety and the already spare reserve of oxygen pushing through his lungs, his heart, his brain, is curtailed by the speed with which he’s respiring it.

 

He doesn’t hear it when Viktor calls his name. The world is a television on mute—the images flicker across his vision, drained of all sound and color. Yuuri must sink to the ground, though he doesn’t remember doing it. When his senses return—funneling around him like a dizzy tornado of light and noise—there’s a hand on the back of his neck, a heaving chest against his shoulder.

 

“Yuuri?” Someone asks. It’s Viktor, Yuuri knows, though he hasn’t lifted his head to check. He can tell by the familiar scent of his cologne.

 

Yuuri straightens up, pushes himself from Viktor. The effort is monumental, like wading upstream with his limbs encased in cement. “That was dumb,” he says because it’s the truth. Then he buries his mouth into the crook of his arm and coughs until his lungs rattle and his cheeks are hot.

 

Viktor reaches across the center console for the fifth time on the short drive home, palming Yuuri’s cheek, his forehead. He’d insisted on driving, even had a short argument with Yuuri in the parking lot. But he didn’t have a Japanese license and couldn’t read the road signs, so Yuuri had won out. It would just take them longer to get home if they were pulled over, Yuuri reasoned.

 

Viktor frowns when Yuuri uses the opportunity of a red light to lean back in his seat and squeeze his eyes shut, swallowing down the fire searing up his throat. “What am I doing to do with you?” He asks, forcing a bottle of water into Yuuri’s clammy hand.

 

Yuuri smiles wryly, accepts the bottle. He looks at Viktor—hair frizzy from the recirculated air of the airplane, lips dry and pale, forehead wrinkled with concern—breathtakingly beautiful, as always.  

 

He reaches out his hand, feels his muscles relax a little when Viktor takes it. ‘ _I can think of a few things_ ,’ he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Rebloggable [here](http://youremarvelous.tumblr.com/post/170627752528/im-a-huge-slut-for-sickfics-particularity-yours)


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